


Local customs

by irisdouglasiana



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: I'm so sorry, Multi, but it should be, kinda ooc but WHO CARES, not season 6 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21997666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisdouglasiana/pseuds/irisdouglasiana
Summary: It took Ivar one hot air balloon ride and two cups of spiced wine before he started to get the feeling that perhaps there was more to Oleg’s hospitality than met the eye. Then the situation went from somewhat weird to…somewhat weirder.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 48





	Local customs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kingwellsjaha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingwellsjaha/gifts).



It took Ivar one hot air balloon ride and two cups of spiced wine before he started to get the feeling that perhaps there was more to Oleg’s hospitality than met the eye. Still flushed and giddy from their flight above Kiev, Oleg himself had draped one of Ivar’s arms over his shoulder while a guard supported his other side, and together they had gone back to the palace for refreshments. They had talked and laughed for a time, but at a certain point, Oleg fell silent. He set aside his wine and gazed at Ivar thoughtfully, and then reached out to tug on his sleeve. “I must get you out of your clothes.”

Ivar choked on his wine. “Excuse me?” he sputtered.

Oleg helpfully thumped him on the back until he stopped coughing. “You are my honored guest! I’ll have no guest of mine be seen wearing…well, whatever it is that you’ve been wearing,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

By “guest,” he meant “prisoner,” but Ivar was not really in a position to quibble over the language. “Thank you,” he said cautiously, and Oleg’s expression brightened. Ivar did have to admit that after so many months on the road, his clothes had started to smell somewhat rank.

“I should introduce you to Rus fashions,” he mused. He looked Ivar up and down. “I myself am partial to bolder colors, but for you, perhaps something more neutral will suit you better. Come, I will take you to the tailor for measurements.”

“What, right now?”

Oleg raised his eyebrows. “Oh, are you busy?”

Ivar had to admit that he was not. So he let the guards help him up and drag him over to see the tailor and listened to Oleg chatter on in great detail about fabric types and patterns. The guards deposited him on a chair in the tailor’s workshop while Oleg greeted the tailor with an affectionate kiss on the cheek before launching into a lengthy discussion in Rus that involved a lot of pointing at various parts of Ivar’s body and frowning at different fabric swatches.

“Now get undressed,” Oleg told Ivar, abruptly switching back to Norse. The tailor had pulled out his measuring tape and was waiting. After a few moments, it became apparent to Ivar that Oleg was not about to leave the room or turn around. He had instead crossed his arms and was staring at Ivar intently.

Ivar cleared his throat, hoping Oleg would take the hint, and fortunately he did, turning his back on Ivar with some reluctance. He continued to talk while the man took Ivar’s measurements, switching with ease between Rus with the tailor and Norse with Ivar, mostly idle questions about what he thought of Kiev, whether he liked the food, and if his rooms were warm and comfortable. Ivar started to wonder if he had been misreading Oleg’s behavior. He forced himself to relax. Maybe it was just the local custom; perhaps this was simply the Rus way of being a good host. That had to be it. It _had_ to.

He kept telling himself this, even after Oleg personally came to his door to deliver his new clothes a week later and suggested he could help Ivar dress in order “to make sure you wear it correctly,” an offer that Ivar quickly but tactfully declined. And then there was the invitation to the puppet show, which Ivar had expected would be attended by an audience of nobles, but no—it had just been the two of them sitting alone on the floor of the palace reception room. Oleg had cried and put his head on Ivar’s shoulder, and Ivar had not been entirely sure what to do, so he ended up patting him on the back until Oleg was finished. (“You must understand, we Rus are emotional people,” Oleg explained afterwards as he wiped away tears and sniffled. “We feel things very deeply.” Ivar had to agree with that assessment.)

This was all a little strange, to be sure, and Oleg’s murder of his brother and torture and imprisonment of his other brother had been slightly unnerving. On the other hand, he hadn’t thrown Ivar in a dungeon or had him gruesomely executed, and the invasion plans for Kattegat seemed to be proceeding well. So on the whole, Ivar had to admit that his stay in Kiev had been generally pleasant and uneventful.

…that is, until he met Oleg’s bride-to-be, and then the situation went from somewhat weird to…somewhat weirder. Ivar knew it was not really appropriate for him to stare so much at Oleg’s intended, as such things might be easily misinterpreted, but he frankly could not help himself, not when Katya looked so like Freydis. She spoke like her, smiled like her, moved like her, and Ivar found it so unsettling that he kept finding excuses to leave whenever Oleg brought her around—at least until Oleg caught on and told him, “I think you two should get to know each other better” in a tone that suggested that this was not, in fact, a suggestion.

Seeing as it was somewhat difficult to explain things in a way that made even a remote amount of sense, Ivar decided the best course was to go along with it as best he could. So he made polite conversation with Katya, smiled when necessary, and did not pull away when she laughed and casually put her hand on his arm. He most definitely did not ask, “Why do you look exactly like my dead wife?” And eventually he did start to get used to it, as much as one could ever get used to that sort of thing. Then, however, there were times when he caught Oleg looking at him and then at Katya with a strangely fond expression, and he really did not know what to make of _that_.

The three of them might have remained in that odd equilibrium for a long while, but in the end, something had to give. That something came a few weeks later at the end of a long day of roaming around the marketplace with Oleg and Katya in search of a type of fruit that Katya was partial to, and by the time they finally found it, Ivar was quite tired and sweaty. Once they had returned to the palace, he excused himself and told them he needed to bathe, and thought nothing of the quick glance the two of them exchanged.

He slowly made his way towards the private bath, which Oleg had given him permission to use rather than having him go to the public bath house like everyone else. He closed the door to the changing room behind him and was about to sit down on the bench to take off the braces and strip when he heard a noise from the adjacent steam room and he froze. The door had been left ajar. For a moment, he wondered if his brothers had sent an assassin to kill him and he reached for the knife he kept hidden up his sleeve, sliding it into the palm of his hand. He took a breath, stepped forward, and pushed open the door—

—and found Oleg, completely naked and stretched out comfortably on the bench. He took a ladle of cool water from the nearby tub and poured it over his head, and then looked up at Ivar with a grin. “Ah, there you are.” 

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Ivar mumbled. He discreetly pushed the knife back up his sleeve and prepared to turn around.

“Well, you mentioned bathing, and I thought—why not?” Oleg stretched his arms out and sighed. “Please, you should join me. It is more pleasant to have company.” Then, unmistakably, he _winked_ at him.

“Uh—” Ivar began, and that, of course, was the moment when Freydis—no, _Katya_ —happened to walk in behind him, wearing only a towel.

“You’re still dressed?” she asked Ivar pleasantly. Then she dropped the towel.

He quickly averted his eyes, but his face was burning. “I’ll—I’ll just come back after you’re done,” he stammered.

“No, no,” she insisted, settling in on the bench beside Oleg, who put an arm around her waist. “There’s plenty of room for all of us.”

That really was not the problem. “I’ll wait,” he managed to say. Then he attempted to back out of there hastily, and quickly discovered that while walking forward with the aid of the braces and crutch at a decent pace was doable after some practice, walking _backwards_ was a different story, and he barely managed to catch himself from falling on his ass right in front of them. “Prince Oleg. Princess Katya,” he remembered to mumble, inclining his head.

Before he shut the door, he heard her ask Oleg in a rather crestfallen tone, “Do you think he finds us unattractive, or is he just shy?” He did not hear Oleg’s reply.

He leaned up against the door for a little while, listening to the murmur of their voices on the other side. All manner of things were finally beginning to make sense. _Whatever is going on_ , he told himself, _I’m_ not _interested._

…except the horrible thing was that he actually _was_ interested. Quite a bit. For a little while, he contemplated going for a walk around the palace and not thinking about Oleg and Katya in the steam room and what they might be doing in there and, more to the point, what exactly they seemed to want to do with _him_ in there. He could come back afterwards and sit down to dinner with them and pretend that nothing had happened. Life would go on.

Then again, there was the possibility that he might offend his hosts, and he didn’t want to do that, did he? Besides, Oleg and Katya didn’t seem like the type of people who would point and laugh at the sight of him; far from it. They had been very welcoming. More than welcoming, really. And if this was the local custom, well…who was he to refuse?

He shrugged. Then he turned and went back inside to join them.


End file.
